Red Eyes Cry Blood
by ImaPseudonym
Summary: Jackson Rippner gets his revenge. This is NOT a JacksonLisa fic.
1. A pleasant daydream

Red Eyes Cry Blood: A pleasant daydream

By Ima Pseudonym

Rating: R for this chapter. Various ratings for the rest... I'll post the rating before each installment.

Disclaimer: I do not own 'Red Eye', nor am I making any money off of this story.

Warning (for this chapter): Non con. Fantasies of torture, and murder. And I'll repeat, "This is NOT a Jackson/Lisa story." There will be no sex between the two, in any way, shape or form. If you're looking for a het fic... You're in luck. They're a penny a dozen on in this archive. Which is in no way to impugn the quality of JxL stories. I simply wish to point out that my story will be one of the few without the pairing.

Summary: Jackson seeks his revenge when presented with a second chance.

Notes: This story is based, loosely, on my philosophy that no antagonist is all bad... Just as no protagonist is all good.

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Chap. I (A pleasant daydream)

"Hey, Red Eye. Up." Jackson grunted as he was yanked off of the uncomfortable bed, landing heavily on hard, cold cement.

Red Eye. God, he hated that nickname. It almost made him long for the days of "Jack" were they not so terrifying in their own way. But there was no way to keep secrets in the joint. Everyone knew everyone's crimes... And he was a joke. Never mind how many successful missions he'd been on before her. Never mind, that he'd 'almost' done it this time. He had failed.

He'd failed spectacularly. On such a level that he was clinically dead for nearly a minute, before they managed to start his heart beating again. There hadn't been a day gone by that he didn't curse those paramedics for their meddling.

The trial had been short. Thank God for that. Jackson couldn't stand the sight of that bitch, sitting in her pristine business outfits, while he was hunched over in chains, in an obscene orange jumper. He hadn't even been allowed a suit. Kidnapping, attempted murder, conspiracy to murder... They had him on several charges, all enough to see him away in prison for two lifetimes. (Unsurprising, considering his target.) It was just as well. If he ever set foot outside of this prison, he would have his 'bosses' to contend with.

Which, after endless hours and days and weeks of contemplation, was still better than the daily tortures he endured here. The publicity afforded from his crimes made him known throughout the expansive prison, and the continual reports and interviews with Lisa, describing how badly she'd wounded him made him seem an easy target. Well… against three grown men, anyone might be an easy target. It wasn't even that the guards turned a blind eye to the abuses he suffered, but in a large prison (already far over the ideal occupancy limit), things go unseen every day. And his personal tormentors knew all of the best hiding places to play with their pretty boy fuck-toy.

The only thing that kept Jackson from taking pilfered sheet metal to his wrists... and the throat of his bear of a cell mate, Jim... was his revenge. On everyone. He would spend hours every night, curled up with Jim's semen cold and sticky between his thighs, planning just how everyone who put him here would suffer. Keefe would live. But his children and wife wouldn't... He'd do them in, and watch from a safe distance as the man discovered his slaughtered family.

Lisa's friend, at the hotel… Sylvia, was it? Or perhaps Cynthia… Regardless, he'd find her, and she'd die, too. Long before Lisa did. That little girl on the plane who'd tripped him, and that horrible woman with the scarf. Perhaps the old woman too... Just because.

And Lisa's father… Jackson had ambitions to make him beg to die... His very slow death would be recorded and the tape sent to her… Right before her...

Lisa, he would explain his reasoning to. It could have been simple. She could have done what he'd asked, and everyone would have gone about their merry fucking way, but she'd frustrated his every attempt. For as much as she might have been terrified, Jackson had been more so. Failure meant death (one that was, apparently, overdo), and he wasn't about to give his own life for a politician he'd never met.

And then he would tell her about his stint in prison… She'd been traumatized because one man took her dignity away... He'd meticulously press a pen to 'her' throat, as he explained how he'd been raped every day (often several times.) How they took turns passing him around, knowing he'd never be able to truly scream… Why couldn't he scream? She wouldn't ask of course, but he'd pretend she had, and then he'd tell her... Show her... Pushing the pen a little harder, until it broke the smooth skin, and she'd scream, of course, while she could. Until he gagged her, because he wasn't finished talking, and interrupting people is simply rude. Just as blood was beginning to stain the pale column, he'd pull the pen away, and sit back, watching as she fought against the binds. He'd sit and ponder what to do next... Stab her in the leg... with a stiletto heel, it was only fair. Or hit her with a field hockey stick... Perhaps a golf club. Replay the tape of her father's final… hours... Maybe he would tell her of his meeting with Keefe's famil-

"I said get up, you fucking whore." Jim was, apparently, in a foul mood. But Jackson could hardly see why he should stand up. The other usually held his face down into the dirty mattress while he fucked him. Images passed through the smaller man's mind. The first time. The second. And then a blur... He'd lost count of just how many times he'd been used by this no-necked cretin. And again the thought of his sentence stung. Two consecutive life times in prison. With 'this' as a cell mate.

"On your knees." Thick fingers in his hair, forced him to the hard ground again, and Jackson fought the urge to roll his eyes. What was the point in standing up?

A shiver ran up his spine, and he grit his teeth for a moment, fighting back a scream of frustration. /This is her fault./ Thought as Jim pushed down his prison issue pants, not bothering to hang a sheet, to save Jackson from the humiliation of being watched by the other inmates. /This is HER fault./ Heavy hands twisted in his unbrushed hair, tugging painfully, and he felt, for a second, that he'd sneeze. The moment passed and he squeezed his eyes shut as something hot and damp brushed against his cheek. /Thisisallherfuckingfault/

Something inside of Jackson... something that had been drawn tighter with each day of his three month incarceration finally snapped. Enough was enough, and with images of Lisa's bloody death still fresh in his mind, he pushed at the bole-like legs of the other, only managing to propel himself backwards. Jim looked down, surprised. Jackson had generally been a pushover. The surprise intensified when his 'bitch' rasped out a hair-raising "No." and brought him down with a leg quickly hooked around the backs of his knees. Jackson would later swear that the beds rattled from the force of the huge man's collision with the floor.

With an agility and precision that everyone underestimated in him, Jackson took only a moment to hold the other man's head between his hands and twist. There was a sickening snap, and Jim fell back onto the floor, face surprised, eyes dull.

Jackson was drawn from this fantasy as Jim grunted his climax, head held still from the painful grip in his hair, as the larger man's vile release dribbled down his chin. One of these days... He would actually do it... One of these days...

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Just as Jackson had been so rudely awakened, shady orders were being given in shady places outside prison walls.

A tall man, thick and dark, spoke with a heavy accent to two able-looking gentlemen before him.

"I want him out. And I don't want anyone looking for him. Do it." That was all it took. The large man, alone now, sat back with the air of a man who knew he'd have what he wanted. The two men he'd sent had never failed him before. Prison was far too good for the likes of Jackson Rippner.

TBC…

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Obviously, there are several things about this story that make it entirely implausible. I'm sure there would be some lasting physical consequences to being technically dead for a minute. They probably would have killed him before he made it to a trial... But for the sake of my story continuing, let's pretend that he never said who he was hired by. (He may not even 'really' know, himself). And his name is, obviously, not Jackson Rippner… But I'm going to pretend he had his name legally changed to that, some years before. When he starts to get his revenge, I'll have him use several aliases, and let ya'll guess which one, I intend to be his 'real' name.

The second chapter, when I get around to it, will be about Jackson's... 'escape'. Chapter three will be the first in a series of gory revenge scenes. -cackles evilly- So if you liked 'ANY' of the characters in the movie... This isn't the story for you. You may not assume that any character is excluded from harm.

My whole point is to bring a semblance of realism to my story. No untrained girl is going to kick a trained assassin's arse... But no 'villain' (even a trained assassin) is going to do everything perfectly.

Comments/reviews/flames are adored.


	2. Jackson up to Bat

Chapter II: Jackson up to Bat

Disclaimer: Still not mine. I'm not receiving reviews/comments/flames for it, let alone money. (Although I'd happily accept any of those four.)

Notes: More Jackson abuse. Half-baked escape plans… And the first of what promises to be many gory death scenes. Mwahahaha.

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Chapter II

Jackson trudged along behind the warden, uncomfortable in his issue blue jeans. He would have thought them fashionably faded, if not for knowing they'd been pre-used. Cleaned... but obviously they'd seen other owners, before him. He tried to keep his head down, face hidden behind a curtain of hair, but he still felt exposed and nervous in the presence of so many other inmates, enjoying their hour of free recreation, working out or watching television...

"-behind bars today. Jackson "Red Eye" Rippner, as the papers have dubbed the man is to be locked away for two consecutive life terms, without chance of parole, or early probation..." He stumbled just slightly, upon hearing the news story, and willed the old guard in front of him to walk faster, and get them out of the large room. The other inmates were talking crudely about him; staring at his mug shot up on the screen, he saw as he chanced a look up. It was unfortunate that at that very moment, the reporter mentioned 'which' prison his incarceration would take place in, and an ugly man saw him, freezing in the middle of a laugh as he recognized Jackson.

He cut off the other prisoner's jeering and yelling (no doubt from just the mention of their prison on the news) to shout "Here's old 'Red Eye' now." Thirty sets of criminal eyes, and twelve pairs belonging to guards were on him, and the room fell quiet. The stunned silence lasted only a moment before there was an uproar, that had several of the guards reaching for their guns, just in case. It took seven of those guards to keep the catcalling men back, while he was led out of the room. So much for being inconspicuous.

Ten minutes later, he'd been left alone in his new home; a cell roughly ten by ten feet. Two beds... A fair few magazine and newspaper clippings covered the walls, on both sides of the cell. It was obvious the bed on the right side of the cell was the one being used by his cellmate. So he removed all of the papers, and lewd photos from his half of the cell, and tossed them on to the right-hand bed. It was probably best to establish, early on, that he wouldn't be pushed around.

With this in mind Jackson stretched out on his new bed, ignoring the springs digging into his back, and tried to get some sleep.

A few hours later, he was awakened, harshly, as he collided with the floor. "What the fu-" he started to say but was cut off as his throat seemed to close up on him. His neck always hurt the worst right after he woke up. Gingerly, he touched the bandage, as he squinted up at the person looming over him. The man was huge, neckless, and mean looking. Against his will Jackson found himself gulping, before he hoisted himself limberly, to his feet. "What was that for?" articulated hoarsely, through a cleared throat.

"You been messing with my stuff." a heavy hand gestured to the other man's bunk, and the papers laying on it. "I thought I'd give you the chance to keep it, rather than me flushing it down the toilet... It was on 'my' side of the cell. Jackson braced himself for the punch he figured was coming, but all the man did was smile. He looked even more beastly, while baring his teeth.

"I don't think you understand the way things work around here... Seniority is everything." Jackson was mildly impressed that the man knew a word as long as 'seniority', but thought better of voicing that, at the moment, as he was pushed back. He fell back, heavily, onto his bed, bouncing a few times from the impact, as he stared up at the other man. Unsure of what to say... To be scathing, or attempt to worm his way out of a situation with humor.

"Let me introduce myself. James McArthur. You can call me Jim, though." Jackson had a few choice names for 'Jim'... but they quickly fled his mind, as the larger man paced slowly, in front of him, looking down expectantly. Jackson sat, watching the other until he stopped, leaning in, much too close for Jackson's peace of mind... "Now, this is where you introduce yourself…"

"Jackson Rippner." he said quickly, praying that the other man would just lumber over to his side of the cell and leave him alone.

"Oh, so 'you' are 'Red Eye'? Lucky me, to get you as a cell mate. The other guys have been talking about you all morning." Jackson didn't want to imagine just in what sense they'd been talking. "So you're in here because you couldn't kill a little girl..." Jackson didn't rise to the bait. He was too concerned about the knee now pressed against his own. "And what are 'you' here for?" The ex-manager snarled in irritation, beyond pissed that everyone thought him incompetent. A moment later, he would really wish he hadn't asked though…

"Twelve counts of rape."

'Oh... Shit.'

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Jackson sat up, suddenly, in a cold sweat. His eyes swept the small cell, before landing on the snoring man some feet away. That was the third time he'd had that dream. Or memory. Whatever the hell it was, it was becoming more detailed... More like the real thing had been, every time. He felt bile burn at the back of his throat, as he clenched his fists, willing himself to remember that it was only a dream. Now he was awake, and Jim was asleep. It was even more difficult think about how short-lived his peace would be.

Every day that passed saw his resistance wear down more. Hatred ran like poison through him, and he knew he was scowling all the time. The muscles on his face protested the abuse, but he couldn't remove the expression. Jim had stopped, a week ago, forcing Jackson to use his mouth, after several serious attempts to bite him. Since then, his cell mate had become somewhat less 'kind'. He even threatened to "-fuck him through that hole in his throat" and went so far as to rip the bandaging off, opening the wound, which started it bleeding again.

But now Jackson was truly at the end of his rope. Every moment, watching that man breath, petrified that he would wake up, had his fingers itching to wrap around the thick neck. The only thing that stopped him was knowing that he probably wouldn't be able to finish the job. Failure again, was not an option. It was easier to bide his time. Although he had no clue what he was hoping to happen. Only 'certain' death awaited him on the outside.

Despite the earliness of the hour, Jackson swore he heard footsteps.. Much too light to belong to any of the guards he'd seen. They took pride in clacking past the cells, waking light sleepers (like himself). Aside from that it was at least an hour too early for the early morning patrol. The footsteps stopped directly before his cell, and he stared at the two dark figures.. 'Oh.. fuck..' he couldn't decide if this was a good thing, or a bad. The expected gunshot didn't come, however. Instead, as quietly as their footsteps had been they let themselves into the cell without so much as the sound of a key scraping metal. Jackson had no doubt that these men were of his former profession. His sheet (kicked to the end of his bed, during his nightmare) was picked up by one of the men, and carefully draped to cover the bars.

"You're coming with us, Mr. Rippner." he felt his blood chill at the whispered words. "But before you go.." The two men exchanged glances, and with a short nod, something long was drawn from a backpack he hadn't noticed. It blended so well with the guard uniform. Cautiously, Jackson took the item, feeling the smooth wood on his palm.. The thing was like a baseball bat.. only shorter, and thicker. It was too dark to see the confusion on his face, but it's purpose was quickly explained. "For your cell mate.. He'll need to be disposed of, before the plan can continue.. We want you to do it." It was difficult to tell if this declaration was accompanied by a malicious smirk, (whether they were doing this to torment him, or if they believed he'd want to) but all the same, Jackson recoiled slightly at the thought. Sure, he'd fantasized about a hundred different ways to kill Jim.. but to actually do it.. He turned slowly to face the still snoring man. Even asleep, there was nothing pleasant about his appearance. No redeeming features relaxed by sleep to imitate innocence. This was the man who'd raped him.. Abused him physically and mentally for months. Delighted in his pain-

Before it truly occurred to him what he was doing, the bat was lifted over his head, and he paused just a moment before bringing it down with all his strength, directly on the sleeping man's head. He felt the bat jar in his hands, from the force of the blow. There was a heavy thud (not enough to raise suspicion) and blood oozed slowly from the man's temple, but Jackson knew he wasn't dead. Not yet. With a sharp intake of breath, he lifted the bat, bringing it down again. This time there was a low crack, and a light spattering of blood.. He hardly noticed the scarlet specks covering his face and clothing.

Jackson's hesitation was shorter, this time, as blind rage took over. The bat came down again.. and again.. and again. Tears streaked his face, mixing with blood, as his arms burned from effort. Blood and gore-covered bits of skin and god knows what else covered the wall and bed, and Jackson kept swinging, ignoring the hissing whispers of "stop, now!" He wanted to beat the man's face into a pulp. Erase it from the real world, so it would stop haunting his dreams. Every hard swing had him falling closer into hysteria, as he desperately tried to hit faster.. harder, until he felt steady arms holding him still, as the dripping bat was wrenched from his shaking hands.

"Easy there, kid.." the man behind him said quietly, holding him back without trouble. Jackson wanted to turn on him for having stopped him. He could still make out part of Jim's nose.. Or maybe that was an ear.. "Someone will have heard him." The other man hissed, and everything was back to business. The unmistakable sound of a switchblade flipping open, had Jackson turning in the other's mans' grip, craning his neck to see his death. "Good night, Mr. Rippner." While his eyes were on the blade, a sharp pinch on his arm brought him back around. His vision split, and he saw the seven syringes being pulled from his seven right arms, before everything went completely black.

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Hell was a lot darker than he'd expected. Pitch black, in fact. It was rather disappointing. He'd expected flames, and brimstone. After several minutes, while his disoriented mind adjusted to the sensation of death, he became aware that Hell wasn't appearing, any time soon.. and the air was stale, and.. definitely not as plentiful as it generally was. A timid push with his foot felt cold plastic give just a little. The same went for his hands. His heart sped up as he realized where he was.. A body bag.. in the dark. Flailing told him he was closed in, in something unmovable.

Cold fear gripped at his heart. He'd been buried alive.. punishment for his failure, and he'd never gotten his revenge. The air seemed even thinner now that he'd begun to struggle in earnest, yelling out for help or forgiveness. It came out, of course, as a rasp. It didn't take long to exhaust himself, clawing at the thick bag, and struggling with what he knew was futile, but be damned if he'd die not trying. Just when he felt like he'd be sick, or have a stroke, the ground under him moved. Suddenly his legs could lift up higher, and he felt them collide with something. Something that let out a heavy swear word. The light was sudden, and painful, and like being born again.

"Jesus.. the poor bastard should still be out cold.. how long do you reckon he was awake in there?" the man he'd kicked unzipped him the rest of the way, and Jackson fell off of whatever he'd been lying on, in his urge to get away from the death bag.

"Don't know.. Doesn't matter. We're leaving now." Without ever addressing him, the man turned and walked away, followed by the other man, who half-pushed, half-supported the still shaken Jackson. They left through the back of the morgue, and into a surprisingly shabby car. "In." he was ordered, and slid into the back seat, followed by one of them. He just caught a quick glimpse of a gun.. strategically displayed as a warning. It was heeded.

"Why-" He began, and then stopped. "How?" Glances exchanged, again, and another nod.

"You were injected with... a special drug. As soon as you were out, we cut your wrists and left you in the cell."

"You.. cut my wrists?" Jackson brought his hands up to his face, and examined his tightly bound wrists for the first time. "The drug slowed your heartbeat so significantly that you didn't bleed to death.. and the slits were very well placed. You were found about an hour later, with a switchblade, and the baseball bat.. Presumed dead, and sent to the morgue.. where your body was cremated. Congratulations, Mr. Rippner. You've been dead for two days."

He'd meant to ask why they hadn't just 'really' killed him. Was his torture and true death yet to come? What came out, however.. "McArthur's dead?" both men were silent for a short time, before the quieter of the two finally spoke. "We're more than usually certain of that." The word 'good' died on Jackson's lips.

Several more minutes passed in uncomfortable silence, before Jackson voiced the question that should've been first on his mind.

"Why did you break me out."

"The boss wants to speak with you." No one said any more after that.

TBC...

Notes: Heh. I'm sorry about the terrible chapter title. It amuses me on some dark and sinister level. The next chapter will deal with Jackson's discovery of just why someone would go through all the trouble and expense of breaking him out of prison.

Any and all reviews are appreciated. (Let me know what you think. :p Even if you hate it.) I mean.. it's almost funny how EVERY other 'Red Eye' fic has at least one review. But there has to be someone who wants to read 'Red Eye' fanfiction, who isn't looking for JacksonLisa sex? I mean.. how could you resist reading about what makes Jackson tick without the driving plot line of "God.. you know.. I really should have fucked Lisa on the plane.. Well.. she did stab me with a pen, and a heel.. and hit me with a field hockey stick.. shoot me... destroy my mission.. (her daddy killed me, to all appearances) and send me to a prison (that is, 'if' I lived) ... but ... Damn if she doesn't look sexy in that skirt and halter top. Never mind that I'm a trained killer who would be going against professional rule number one in the 'Assassins for Dummies' book.. Must. Have. Sex... Oh.. and she secretly wants it, too. -" ..Don't deny it.


	3. You're Fired!

Title: You're fired! (Being chapter three of my "disturbing" Red Eyes Cry Blood series.)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: PG (13?) for this chapter

Summary: Jackson seeks his revenge.

Notes: No death in this chapter. But I have every intention of killing Keefe in the next. This chapter was beta'd by meletoretal who showed me that my love for commas is unrequited. :p But she didn't give up on me, and for that I'm grateful. As all of you, who read this, should be.

Disclaimer: Belongs to Wes Craven, and Cillian Murphy, and my own need to have Jackson get his revenge.

You're Fired!

Several uneventful hours later, Jackson found himself jolted awake as gravel crunched underneath the car. It was too dark to make out surroundings, but the headlights reflected off of what looked to be a dilapidated building. Really, he hadn't expected anything different. Allowing himself to be ushered out of the vehicle, Jackson noted the gun's reappearance. Clearly, they expected that now that he was so close to his doom, he'd make a run for it. And had he not seen the weapon, they'd have been right. No matter his certainty of its presence.

Light flashed briefly in an upper-story window, and the three looked up in unison. Seeing an opportunity, Jackson took it. He hadn't gone five steps before there was an arm wrapped around his throat, the only thing to keep him standing as his feet went out from under him. His heart pounded in his ears as he was shoved back towards the building, one of the men gripping his left arm as the other held a handful of his hair, gun pressed firmly to Jackson's side.

Swallowing around his heart (which had moved, inconveniently, to his throat in the last minute), Jackson shied away from the great steel door. Much too soon, it creaked open, and two new men hauled him inside. Leaving his original captors behind, he allowed himself to be ushered through the expansive room.

No one spoke. That disturbed Jackson more than anything else. The silence stretched for so long that he wasn't sure he'd even be able to speak, if called to.

It was certainly a warehouse of sorts. 'And how original,' Jackson thought, mildly surprised at his own sarcasm. Imminent death seemed more the thing to concentrate on, at the moment. Led down a series of hallways, and up a few flights of rickety stairs, they finally stopped before what might have been an office, when the warehouse had seen better days. There was little doubt that 'this' was it... If the thugs standing guard before the doors were any indication. With a hard glare that did little to intimidate, one of them opened the door and Jackson allowed himself to be manhandled inside.

'Another shocker,' Jackson's brain helpfully deadpanned. The office was, of course, gaudy in it's opulence. From the heavy silk drapes hanging over the barred window to the gauche Turkish rug that spread across the room in ugly shades of red and blue.

"Please. Take a seat." Those were the first words Jackson had heard in hours, and they sent chills racing down his spine. It occurred to him that it hadn't been so much a request, as he was shoved backwards into a chair at the center of the tacky rug. Despite all effort to remain cool in the face of death, he found himself clinging to the arms of the chair, knuckles white.

Adjusting to the light that must have been kept purposely dim, he studied the man before him -- the one apparently in charge. And if in charge, then he must have been...

"Mr. Larche." Jackson didn't have the strength to feel pleased at not stuttering. Or embarrassed at the airy rasp that was his voice, after so long spent without words.

Michael Larche. The largest crime boss/assassin ringleader that no one had ever heard of. The man who had connections with every terrorist, communist, and Republican group in the world. Or so the rumors went, around a selective group of ears. The man who the Russians had hired to kill Keefe... and the man who was not exactly pleased with the job Jackson had done. Not for the first time in just the past few hours, Jackson found himself wishing that they really had properly slit his wrists in the prison. The look Larche was giving him suggested several more unpleasant types of death.

Jackson sat nervously before him, feeling as though he were on a roller coaster with far too many unpleasant turns and loops. It was as if he were now on the slow incline, before the tracks ran out and he plummeted to his demise. He felt nauseous.

"My boys told me about what you did. With a bat! Blood everywhere." The man let out a surprisingly high-pitched laugh then, that chilled Jackson's blood further. An image of the dark cell, with black blood everywhere, formed unbidden in his mind. And there was the drop. He felt his stomach fall as the world fell out from under him, and then he was vomiting on the gaudy Turkish rug.

Ungentle hands hauled him back into his chair, from his kneeling position on the floor. He sat through Larche's cursing, shaking slightly from the exertion of retching. He no longer worried about being shot. Vomit was easier to clean up than blood, after all.

"Fucking handmade, too." He decided that informing the man that it had been a waste of money would be a terrible career move at the moment. So he simply sat, wallowing in his misery, and waiting out whatever this was.

"Mr. Rippner, I'll be very direct with you. You single-handedly lost me seventeen million dollars through your incompetence. And my relations with the Russians... well, they've been better. At first I thought of having you killed... But I was advised against it. You are alive today because I am a forgiving man." He paused here, but Jackson only continued to watch him, warily. He wasn't about to thank the man for his 'kindness'. Prison hadn't exactly been a step up from death.

"Being that I'm a forgiving man, I've reflected on it... and you're going to have a second chance."

Short nails (bitten in a newly acquired nervous tick) dug into the well-oiled leather armrests.

"I don't- ..How?" The generous offer wasn't filling him with any sort of gratitude. Things could easily go as wrong as they had before.

"You are going to finish the job," Larche started, and before he could stop himself the name escaped Jackson's lips.

"Lisa-"

"-Won't be harmed. She's not our concern."

The frame of the chair creaked from the strength of Jackson's grip. She was very much 'his' concern.

"You're going to finish the job with Keefe... and you'll do it alone, without my resources at your disposal. I've learned not to throw men or money away on a lost cause."

"That's not possible! His security will have doubled. I can't possibly do that alone. And 'without' financial aid? I'm 'dead'! I can't exactly work part-time at McDonalds to pay for everything I'll need. I'm not even armed-" He cut off, abruptly, when he found himself staring down a .44 Magnum. His breath left in an embarssing 'whoosh' as Larche emptied the cartridge of bullets, before tossing the weapon at Jackson.

"It's not possible..." he whispered, holding the cold gun, almost sure he could feel it sucking the warmth from his skin.

"I had considered that out-and-out threatening you might not be enough. Now, Jackson... I'm well aware that you're smarter than you look." He was simply too exhausted to be offended by that. "I wouldn't have assigned you to Keefe in the first place if I'd doubted your abilities. But it was a shit plan. Too much reliance on other parties... I have a little faith left in you, yet, despite your fuck-ups. And here's the deal I'll make you... You kill Keefe, and apart from letting you live, I'll fund a cause much more meaningful to you. Your revenge, for instance."

Jackson didn't have to think about it.

"No." Saying 'no' to Michael Larche was as good as signing your own death warrant.

"You're saying no to my generous offer?" The sound of guns cocking filled the room. To his credit, Jackson didn't flinch.

"I'm saying no to the money. My revenge will be had on my own terms. I'll kill Keefe," he was immensely pleased at the confidence in his voice, "but then I want out."

There was a long silence. Too long. Jackson felt the 'coaster starting to derail.

"Still got balls, I see..." The tension bled out of the room, thickly. "You just may pull it off."

"But it will take me a year to do it."

"You've got two months."

"Well then I'll need ten grand. Chump change to a man of your success, surely?" Larche didn't seem at all pleased by the request, but Jackson wasn't a fool. They were both fully aware that it couldn't be done without some financial aid.

"...I'll give you three."

"Five."

"...All right. Five thousand, to have it done in two months." That certainly seemed like the end of the discussion.

"But if it's not done... You know there is no place, on this planet or off, where you can hide..."

Jackson swallowed around a dry mouth, suddenly remembering the soreness of his throat.

He held no illusions that he would ever get 'out'. This wasn't a profession you could quit. But he had to at least hope they'd allow him his revenge before they came after him.

"Get up." One of the nameless thugs hauled him to his feet and shoved him towards the door.

"Best of luck..." was the last thing Jackson heard before a gun butt cracked against the back of his head and the dust covered floor of the hallway rose up to meet him.

TBC...

The reviews I received here (all three of them :p) make me so very happy, I cannot begin to tell you. So thank you for those. And feel free to leave more comments should anything in this chapter strike your fancy. Oh! And if you happen to watch the movie (now that it's out on video) and can't keep from ranting about how the ending (or any part) grates on your nerves, go ahead and send me an email. I NEVER get tired of discussing 'Red Eye'. Hope you had fun with Chapter 3.


	4. Merry Christmas, Bitches

Title: Merry Christmas, bitches

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Disclaimer: Not mine

Notes: For those of you who expressed interest in my little series. I have not given up on it. Not matter how long since the last installment. I wrote this after Christmas two years ago, and forgot to post it last. So consider this little tidbit a gift to those of you who've given up on me ever continuing this story. Naturally, I can't promise when the next installment is coming out, but… It's in my mind (and bits and pieces of it are on my computer.)

This story takes place while Jackson is still in prison. A few months after his incarceration began.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Jackson let himself doze off briefly, confident that he would be (for the moment) undisturbed.

It was Christmas day, and as a sort of present to the inmates, the guards had obtained several videos (of a rather questionable nature) to air for the two or so hours before the Warden made his mandatory visit. It was a tradition, apparently, that was highly appreciated, by most of the men. For those who chose not to partake in that sort of merriment, the yard was always an option. And when Jackson had been sure Jim (and a number of his most appalling friends) were going to be watching the tapes, he'd made his escape.

Basking in the shadows and imagining a white Christmas, several years earlier, Jackson kept a close eye on the other inmates in the yard. Most of them were carbon copies of himself. Pale, thin, and jumpy. 'Bitches'. Knowing that when they returned to their cells it would be with cellmates who'd worked themselves up, watching the videos.

He was rather pleased at the picture of calm he presented today, however. It might have been this false projection of self-assurance that drew one of the other men over to him. A man who paused just a moment, before climbing the bleachers, and sitting two rows down from Jackson... Who was now fighting the urge to sit up straight, should he need to flee. 

"Merry Christmas." the other said after some length of uncomfortable silence.

Jackson grunted in response, a bit sour that his precious solitude had been stolen from him.

"Hearts?" the other queried, not appearing phased by his less-than-warm welcome. He turned to face Jackson, clearly expecting an answer of sorts.

The man was ashen-faced, and gangly. With a surprisingly low voice, that Jackson had at first taken to be grumbling.

"I beg your pardon?" Jackson wondered if this was some sort of prison-bitch code that he'd yet to learn.

"Do you want to play?" A deck of cards made its appearance from the deep pockets of a light denim jacket.

Jackson frowned, glancing around the yard again. Taking in the various guards, and disgruntled prisoners, before turning his attention back to this person before him. What was the point in card games? Would it help, later tonight, when he'd undoubtedly be- ...No. There was definitely no reason for playing games. Except, maybe, that the man had singled him out and asked him to. Perhaps... Because while it wouldn't help later, it was a distraction for now. And quite possibly... Some non-belligerent contact would do this man some good. Would do Jackson good, as well.

"Make it Speed and you're on." he finally responded, the side of his mouth quirking into something resembling a grimace. The closest Jackson had come to smiling, in three months.


End file.
